by Karen Clarke
‘Put it at the top, Dad!’ For the first time since I’d met him, Jack sounded like a normal, happy six-year-old. ‘It’s better than a fairy.’ Digby barked his agreement, making us all laugh – apart from Felicity.
‘What would you like for Christmas?’ I asked him, as Seth tried to balance the robin at the top of the tree by winding tinsel around it.
‘I keep asking him that,’ said Seth.
‘I don’t know.’ Jack dropped to his knees and pushed around a Christmas decoration in the shape of a racing car, driven by a jolly-faced Santa. Catching Felicity watching him, I imagined her buying it for a young, car-mad Seth, not realising that one day he’d grow up to drive one for real. ‘I might want a lightsaber and a Lego Star Wars game.’
Seth dropped him a glance full of pleased wonder. ‘I’ll have a word with Father Christmas,’ he said. ‘I don’t think it’s too late yet.’
Jack looked up and gave a quick smile, his gaze grazing mine, and I had the feeling my presence had somehow given him the confidence to ask for what he really wanted. And when Felicity stood up and spoke, I understood why.
‘We’ve already talked about this haven’t we, Jack?’ She brushed her hands down her herringbone skirt before turning to look at Seth. ‘There are some wonderful educational gifts that will help Jack to learn,’ she said. ‘He spends enough time on that silly computer as it is, and needs to broaden his horizons if he wants to do well.’
‘Doing things you like is just as important as learning,’ I said, before I could stop myself. Trying to bring back the laughter, I added, ‘If Santa had bought me an educational toy, I’d have sent it back.’
‘And that, right there,’ she poked a finger between Seth and me, as if we were somehow in cahoots, a dangerous look in her eyes, ‘is what’s wrong with today’s youth.’
‘Mum,’ Seth began, but she’d already turned and dipped to scoop up the tea tray. ‘You haven’t even got a coffee table for heaven’s sake,’ she snapped. ‘And the tea’s gone cold while you’ve been messing about.’
The last bit was directed at me, accompanied by a frosty glare as she swooshed out of the room, calling back, ‘You’ll need to come out of there, by the way. The skirting boards need glossing.’
In silence, Jack shuffled across to pick up his iPad, followed by a subdued-looking Digby, while Seth studied a patch of fairy-lit floor by his feet. Watching them while Felicity issued an order to the decorators, I was overcome by the strongest sensation that I mustn’t – at any cost – let her gain custody of Jack.
Chapter Seventeen
‘You said you’d be back by five, and it’s nearly half past.’
‘Sorry, I got held up.’ The electrician had called to say he couldn’t find a replacement after all, and I’d had no luck either, despite offering double the amount of money for just a few hours work. It seemed no one was available this close to Christmas.
‘Oh yes, it was your first day working for Seth, I nearly forgot.’
I briefly froze, hoping Bridget wouldn’t ask for details, then sloughed off my coat and entered the kitchen. Romy was sitting at the table, about to upend a bowl of baked beans.
‘No!’ roared Bridget, reaching a hand out to stop her a second too late.
‘BEANS!’ Romy emptied the bowl, before dashing it to the floor and began smearing the juice over her cheeks.
‘Oh, Romy, for heaven’s sake,’ cried Bridget, dashing to the sink where she grabbed a cloth and wrung it out under the tap.
Grateful for the distraction, I zoned in on an empty tin on the worktop, beside a heap of chopped carrots and leeks. ‘I didn’t realise Heinz had moved into the natural, organic food business.’
‘I couldn’t get the bloody blender to work, and Romy said she was starving, and beans have lots of the amino acids so I figured it wouldn’t hurt this once.’
‘BLOODY, BLOODY, BLOODY!’ chanted Romy, twisting her head back and forth so that Bridget kept missing her target with the cloth.
‘Romy, please keep still,’ she implored, throwing me a murderous look when she caught me grinning as I pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘I’m supposed to be meeting Seth at eight, which means I’ve only got two and a half hours to get ready.’
‘Blimey, Bridget, you don’t need that long.’
‘In case you haven’t noticed, Tilly, I’ve got a child to look after. I haven’t had time to wash my hair, or do my nails, or even go for a wee.’
‘What have you been doing?’
‘What have I been doing?’ She gave up aiming the cloth at Romy and dropped on a chair opposite, as if my question was so shocking she needed a minute to comprehend it. ‘Only a non-parent could ask a question like that,’ she said at last, chucking the cloth on the table. She was wearing a checked shirt I recognised as Dad’s and had pulled her mass of hair into a lopsided bun. ‘Let me see now… I tried to teach Romy her alphabet, but she kept putting her hands over her ears, then we went to the park – you know, the one where I used to take you – and that took ages because Romy wanted to bring all her toys, and then she kept poking her tongue out at a boy on the swing, and his mum told me off for not noticing right away, and then we went to the supermarket where Romy knocked a jar of pickle off the shelf and it smashed. I say knocked, she actually picked it up and threw it because I wouldn’t let her have a Curly Wurly because it was too close to lunchtime, and then she didn’t want a banana so I ended up giving her some Smarties I found in my handbag.’ As she finally ran out of steam, I noticed her eyes were red and puffy as if she’d had a good cry at some point.
‘Have you tied your hair up with a pair of knickers?’ I said gently.
‘I couldn’t find a hairband.’ Her chin trembled. ‘They don’t even fit me any more.’
‘Knickers!’ bellowed Romy. She scooped up a handful of beans and slopped them onto the floor. ‘Beans!’
‘Why don’t you go and have a bath?’ I said to Bridget, who’d dropped her head into her hands and was rocking gently back and forth. ‘I’ll keep an eye on Romy and clear up the kitchen.’
‘I don’t know.’ Rallying a little, Bridget lifted her head and cast a wary look at her daughter. ‘She’ll probably cry for me as soon as I leave the room and you won’t know what to do.’
‘Give me a chance, Bee.’ I wondered why I was bothering when she clearly didn’t trust me, even when she was desperate – but she was obviously more desperate to meet Seth because she nodded.
‘Fine, but you must call for me straight away if you feel you can’t manage, Tilly, I mean it.’ She stood up, swaying a little. ‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’ I pressed a hand on my heart, deciding not to berate her for her lack of faith. She’d had a tough day, and it wouldn’t do for her to turn up to her date looking as if she’d been mugged. ‘Go on,’ I urged. ‘Have a nice soak.’
‘And you’ll find me something to wear?’
I was already regretting offering to help on that front, but I’d promised so I nodded. ‘Shout me when you’re out of the bath.’
She blew a kiss to Romy, who was delicately squashing a baked bean between her finger and thumb, and when she’d gone, my niece fixed me with her clear blue eyes and her mouth dimpled into a smile, and the sight of her orange cheeks and tiny teeth made my chest tighten up.
‘Hello, you.’
‘’lo,’ she said, suddenly shy, peering at me through her fingers. It was the first time we’d been left alone, and released from the pressure of Bridget’s critical gaze it was easy to lift Romy off the chair and transport her to the sink. She was weighty for such a small person, but when she flung her arms around my neck and held on, I found I didn’t want to put her down. She smelt of shampoo and beans, and the feel of her soft, small body and her silky hair made it hard to breathe.
‘Let’s get you cleaned up, little monkey.’ I sat her on the draining board, and she let me wipe her face and hands with a dampened tea towel, watching me with great solemnity – like a royal visito
r allowing a native to anoint her with holy water. ‘You’re a scamp,’ I said, which was what Dad used to say to me, though – by all accounts – I’d been nowhere near as difficult as Romy. Not that she was being difficult now. In fact, she was like a different child. ‘That’s better,’ I said, once her cheeks had been restored to her natural rosy hue. ‘Now, you sit at the table while I make some toast.’ I was suddenly starving. I hadn’t eaten since the bread and olives at Rufus’s house.
Seth had seemed disappointed when I’d told him I had to get home for dinner, and suggested I eat something at the cottage as I was going to be babysitting Jack, but not wanting to give away that Bridget had asked for help getting ready for their date, I’d pleaded some errands I had to run first. Felicity, ushering a harassed-looking workman with a tin of gloss paint into the living room, had said archly, ‘Had enough already, Miss Campbell?’ leading Seth to remind her I’d done them a favour by taking time out of my day to be vetted by her. Jack – on his way upstairs with Digby – had stopped to say, ‘Bye’, without being prompted, and I’d found myself reluctant to leave, in spite of Felicity, and was already looking forward to returning.
‘Would you like some toast?’ I asked Romy, aware that she hadn’t eaten her beans and was probably hungry too.
She nodded. ‘Toast!’ she beamed, clapping her hands. She seemed to like repeating words.
‘A, B, C, D, E,’ I said, as I slid four slices of bread into the toaster.
‘AY, BEE, CEE, DEE, EEEEE,’ she echoed, and clapped her hands in delight.
‘Well done,’ I said. ‘Say that to Mummy when she comes down.’
‘Mummeeee!’
I spread the toast with butter, making Romy giggle by pretending to feed her teddy bear, which I’d rescued from under the table where she must have lobbed him. ‘TEDDY!’ she shouted. She took him from me and squashed him to her face, planting noisy kisses all over his fur, and by the time Bridget shouted that she was out of the bath we’d finished our toast, I’d eaten six ginger biscuits, and we’d got up to M in the alphabet. ‘Coming!’ I called back.
‘Could you bring me a glass of wine?’
I pulled an astonished face. ‘Mummy wants some wine?’ I said to Romy. Bridget must be nervous about her date, because she didn’t drink as a rule – she hated the feeling of being out of control.
‘Wine,’ echoed Romy, patting Teddy on the head.
I found a half-open bottle in the fridge and poured a large glassful, then hoisted Romy up and carried both upstairs.
‘She can walk, you know.’ Bridget emerged from the bathroom in a fog of steam, wrapped in a lemon towel, another around her head. ‘She has to learn to use her own two legs.’
‘You sound like Felicity,’ I said, putting Romy down. She immediately scampered across the landing, shoved open the door to Mum and Dad’s bedroom and dived onto their bed.
‘Felicity?’ Bridget took the glass of wine and had a long swig.
‘Seth’s mother.’
Her eyebrows flew up. ‘You met his mother?’
‘She was at the cottage today while I was… working,’ I said. ‘She’s been staying a couple of days.’
‘So, how did it go?’ Bridget’s eyes were already brighter than they’d been half an hour ago. ‘Is the cottage nice?’
‘It’s, er, yes, at least it will be once it’s been decorated.’ No need to mention I wasn’t the one doing the decorating.
‘Was he pleased with your work? Seth, I mean.’ It was obvious who she’d meant, but I had the feeling she was enjoying saying his name – as though anticipating how it would sound when she told people who she was dating.
‘I… I think he was.’ I hadn’t got round to mentioning to Seth that Bridget thought I was doing up his cottage. The moment hadn’t presented itself. I’d caught him looking at me once or twice, while we were decorating the tree; as if he couldn’t quite believe it was happening. That, not only were he and Jack in the same room, they were doing something together and Jack was having fun. Just thinking about it ignited a glow that spread through me, warming my face and damping down a worm of anxiety about finding an electrician.
‘And what’s he like?’ Bridget held up a hand before I could open my mouth. ‘No, don’t tell me.’ She glugged some more wine, then whipped the towel off her head, shaking out her hair in a way that reminded me of Digby on the beach. ‘I want to find out for myself, and you probably didn’t get much of an opportunity to talk.’
‘Not really,’ I said, recalling Felicity’s overbearing presence. If she hadn’t been there, would Seth and I have talked more? But if she hadn’t been there, neither would I, I reminded myself. And why was I even thinking about Seth? I tried to replace his image with one of Rufus, but ended up with a scary combination of them both. ‘Let’s get you dressed.’ I picked up the towel that Bridget had dropped on the floor and draped it over the banister. ‘There’s nothing in my wardrobe that would fit you, but I’m sure there’ll be something in Mum’s.’
‘Are you kidding?’ A look of dismay spread over Bridget’s freshly-scrubbed face. She looked almost a decade younger than nearly forty, her freckles only adding to her youthful appearance. I wondered how Seth felt about freckles. ‘Mum’s nearly seventy!’ she cried, waving her half-empty wine glass.
‘You’ve been practically living in her cardigans and Dad’s shirts,’ I pointed out.
‘But that’s around the house.’
‘You’re the same height and shape as Mum, and she’s got loads of good stuff she hardly ever wears.’
‘But…’
‘Trust me.’ I lowered my voice and pointed through the doorway to Romy, fast asleep on our parents’ bed, still clutching her teddy, one thumb jammed in her mouth. ‘She’s so gorgeous, Bee.’
‘When she’s sleeping,’ stage-whispered Bridget, and knocked back her glass of wine as though it was medicine.
Entering Mum and Dad’s bedroom, with its soft pile carpet, built-in wardrobes, and pale candy-striped wallpaper was like stepping back in time. Even the air smelt the same; Mum’s jasmine perfume mingled with the leathery scent of the Italian shoes Dad always wore for work.
‘I still don’t understand why you made every room look like the ones at the old house.’ Bridget followed with great reluctance, as though entering the tiny cell of a convicted felon. ‘It gives me déjà vu.’
‘I told you, we were happy at the old house.’ I moved across the room and carefully pulled the curtains closed against the inky-black night. The threatened snow still hadn’t arrived, proving – yet again – that weather forecasters always got it wrong. ‘We’d have moved back there if we could, but the house was gone, so we recreated it here.’
‘Creepy.’ Bridget joined me at the walnut dressing table that had been shipped back from Canada, along with the rest of our furniture, and picked up one of the many-framed photos that cluttered its surface. It was a picture Dad had taken of Mum, caught off guard, coiling a strand of hair around her finger, her lips slightly parted. (‘I look a bit gormless,’ she always said, but she didn’t – she looked beautiful.) ‘Weren’t these taken on their honeymoon?’ Bridget pointed to a photo a holidaymaker had taken of them hand in hand, paddling in the sea.
I nodded. ‘Seems funny to think of them newly married in Egypt.’ They looked happy, smiling into each other’s eyes. They’d been smiling at each other for over forty years now, and showed no signs of stopping. ‘Where did you and Frenchie go on your honeymoon?’
Bridget swiped my arm. ‘Don’t call him that.’ The wine must have mellowed her mood as her lips didn’t tighten at the mention of her ex-husband. ‘We went to stay with his parents in the south of France. He got pissed every day, and tried to shag a waitress at a café he’d taken me to.’
I pulled a face. ‘I could have told you he was no good.’
‘Mum wrote to me, you know,’ Bridget said unexpectedly. ‘She told me you’d mentioned him trying it on with you the day I introduced him, and that�
��s why you left in such a hurry.’ She gazed at a photo of the two of us, eating fish and chips on a beach, a brooding seagull close by. It was the last day out we’d had as a family, before Bridget left home for good. ‘They forbade me from ever bringing him to the house again.’
I looked at her. ‘I didn’t know.’ Was that why Mum had cried when Bridget married him? Not because we weren’t invited to the wedding, but because she’d gone ahead with it, knowing what he’d done?
Bridget shrugged. ‘I think deep down, I knew what he was like.’ She picked up a bottle of perfume and absently sprayed her wrist. ‘I just didn’t want to admit I’d picked a wrong ’un.’
‘He was really good looking.’ I wished I’d plied her with wine a lot sooner so we could have talked like this. ‘And his accent was…’ I kissed the tips of my fingers. ‘Ooh la la.’
‘Ooh la la!’ Bridget tittered. ‘No one in France says that.’
‘Good job we’re not in France then.’
‘To the wardrobe!’ She pointed a sergeant major-ish finger, dropping her towel as she swivelled around. Luckily, she’d put on underwear – a black and cream satin-and-lace combo that showed off her ample assets as she tiptoed past the bed with exaggerated care, blowing kisses to a gently slumbering Romy, before miming a scream as she stubbed her toe on the bed frame. ‘That fucking well hurt,’ she hissed, thudding onto a velvet-topped stool to massage her foot in a very un-ladylike pose. Now, I was starting to wish she hadn’t had any wine. It was so rare for her to drink – and probably on an empty stomach – that she was already tipsy, and I wanted Seth to see her at her best. Fortunately, the pain in her toe seemed to have had a slightly sobering effect.
‘I don’t want to look mumsy, or frumpy,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a look at his exes online, and they all look like supermodels. In fact, his dead wife was a supermodel.’ She prodded the roll of fat above her knickers with a disconsolate pout. ‘I looked like I was having a litter when I was pregnant with Romy. I’ll never get rid of this muffin top.’